For three hours he followed a trail which was easily found. Once or twice he thought he heard movements in the forest but, although he kept his hand ever ready on his sword, he was not attacked.
Then, just as he turned the bend in the trail, they were there: the Uffjirian’s men, lined across the narrow path, swords drawn and pikes at the ready.
But the mercenary was trained to quick thinking and at the same moment as his heels dug into the myat’s flanks, he drew sword, unhooked shield and brought his lance to bear as he thundered down upon his foes, his crimson cloak flying behind him like the vast wings of the sucha bat and a bloodcurdling war-shout on his lips!
Taken aback, they wavered, but at the Uffjirian’s yells behind them, pushed forward to meet the charging lancer. Down went one with a brilliantly tufted shaft protruding from his throat. The lance was wrenched out of the mercenary’s hands and his steed reared and snorted, flailingwith its cloven hooves. His face alight with battle-lust, he ducked beneath the guard of another man and dealt him a cut which put him down shrieking and calling to some unknown god in an agony of death. He whirled his steed about, hoping to gain a little ground by retreating, but it was too late, for he was surrounded by a solid ring of pikes and blue steel. He caught blow after blow on his shield and the flat of his sword. One man lunged upwards with his heavy pike and the myat snorted in pain before his deadly hooves beat the pikeman down.
Leaping from the wounded myat, the lone swordsman found himself surrounded by four of Parijh’s men. He bled from a dozen superficial cuts and still he fought with the skill and ferocity of a trained crinja cat. Then there was a gap in their ranks and he was through, rushing for a tethered myat twenty yards away.
Howling like were-wolves, they followed him across the glade and reached him just as he cut the tethering rope of the myat with his sword and leaped into the high saddle. They attempted to slash at his animal’s legs but a swift arc of blue steel drove them back. As he passed the body of the man whom he had first slain, he stopped and wrenched the lance from the corpse and then he was away, down the long trail in the direction Orfil had taken. All his would-be captors heard was a grim laugh which echoed through the tall trees of the forest.
Turning in the saddle, the mercenary saw them run to their mounts and Parijh come from behind, scolding and cursing—for amongst other things, the fine beast the mercenary had taken had belonged to the Uffjirian!
And it soon proved its worth for he easily outdistanced them and was again following Orfil’s tracks—a trail which was to lead to the weirdest adventure in his whole career.
Chapter Thirteen
The Sea Wolves!
Two days after his fight with the Uffjirian’s men, the mercenary rode into the port of Minifjar in the country of Barj.
There were several ships in the harbour: merchantmen mainly, but here and there rose the tall prows of warships.
Although their aircraft are chemical-motor powered, the Zylorians have not found an engine capable of moving their ships, or for carrying them very far and, since steam or electricity are also unknown, they still rely on sails and oars for motive power, their atmosphere being differently constituted.
Most of the ships were equipped with both sails and oars but two of them were built for sails only. From every one of them, long barrels poked from strategic ports, for it was only a suicidal madman who would sail anything but the calm waters of the Asnogi Channel and the Shortani Sea unarmed.
There was one ship, a galley, which stood out from the others. Its tall prow rose triumphantly above the rest and its sails and paintwork were predominantly purple. Purple, like black on Earth, is the colour of death on Zylor, so it attracted much attention from the inhabitants of the small town.
The mercenary sought out the only presentable inn and bought a meal and a bed for the night.
As he lugged his equipment, wearily ascending the flight of narrow stairs, he looked up and caught a glimpse of a familiar face—that of Orfil of Rhan’s girl companion.
Evidently she had been watching him. The warrior kept a wary hand on his sword and resolved to make sure that his door was firmly barred that night.
But soon after he had dumped his belongings on the dirty bed, he heard the rattle of harness and, from his small window, he saw the spy and the girl leaving the walled entrance of the inn. They had none of their possessions with them which told the mercenary a great deal. They had gone for reinforcements.
Sitting on the edge of the bed Sojan pondered what he should do.
He had decided that it would be wiser to leave, when there came the sound of myats’ hooves and a squad of Barjite Cavalry, fully armed with lances, swords, long rifles and pistols, clad in uniforms of blue, red and green with shining breastplates, helmets and leg greaves of bright steel, clattered to a halt outside the inn.
“Thank Vit!” the mercenary murmured. For he recognised the captain of the mounted men as an old friend, who had fought beside him in an expedition Barj had made when bandits had been raiding their caravans of merchandise.
“Red!” he cried, opening the window. “Red, you son of a crinja cat!”
Red, or as his men knew him, Captain Jeodvir, Vollitt’s son of Chathja, turned. Then, as he saw who called him, a wide grin took the place of his previously astonished expression and he passed a hand through the shock of hair which gave him his nickname.
“Sojan! What’re you doing in this particular bit of Hell?”
“And you? One of King Vixian’s crack lancers commanding a coastal patrol?”
“The king doesn’t like me any more, Sojan,” laughed the warrior. “Not since I pressed for better pay for the cavalry and nearly started a civil war at the last council!”
It was Sojan’s turn to laugh. “You couldn’t plead for better conditions for the underpaid infantry, I suppose?”
“What? And have them get the idea that they’re up to cavalry standard!” The rivalry between infantry and mounted divisions in Barj was very real and at times became a threat to the internal peace of that nation. The brawls between the better trained cavalry (generally inheriting the right to become an officer) and the recruited infantry were cursed in every town from Erm to Ishtam-Zhem, the capital. But Sojan was not concerned with this, he had an ally now, no need to run, he could stay and fight like a man.
“Looking for a fight, Red?” he said.
“Dying to be killed, why?” enquired Red, using an expression which was currently popular among fighting men.
“Because I have a feeling that we will be in one soon!”
“Good, I’ll tell my men to be prepared.”
“Thanks, I’ll need some help, I think.”
“Unusual for you to admit that’.”
“Shut up, I’m coming down.”
In the courtyard of the inn, Sojan told Red what he knew about Orfil and what had happened to him since he left the court of Hatnor to search for his ruler’s son.
And as he finished, Orfil and a band of some twenty mounted men in seamen’s clothes, rode into the courtyard. The captain’s squad consisted of ten men. They were outnumbered almost two-to-one. The seamen had no lances but the cavalry had left their rifles, pistols and lances with their myats’ saddles and other equipment. Now they were armed only with long vilthors and small battle-axes.
It took Orfil less than a second to take stock of the situation and with a curse, he bore down upon the group, yelling a blasphemous battle-shout so full of evil that it made Sojan’s hair tingle. His men followed him. They were hardened sea-wolves. All of them by rights were fodder for the executioner’s axe. Scarred, wild-eyed men in exotic clothes of many hues and lands. Black, green, white and red. From every nation on Zylor, they bore weapons which were equally varied: battle-axes, maces, pikes, hooked swords and broadswords, vilthors and blades resembling scimitars. All were there, and many so strange they could not readily be identified as weapons.
Sojan blocked Orfil’s lance thrust with his own long sword an
d unslung his shield from his back in a hurry. But not soon enough, for Orfil’s lance stabbed again and flung the mercenary backward against a wall. Luckily, the lance tip broke on Sojan’s breastplate and Orfil swore to his dark gods as he wheeled his steed about and attempted to cut at Sojan with his broadsword. But now Sojan stumbled to his feet again, back pressed to the wall, shield up and blade screaming as he cut past Orfil’s guard.
But Orfil was swept away as the fight eddied back and forth across the courtyard. There, a blue-green man of Poltoon went down with a lancer on top of him, stabbing again and again. Near him a huge red man, bearded, with one of his small horns broken and splintered, staggered towards his tethered steed spitting blood from a punctured lung—he never made the myat. A lancer was crushed by sheer weight of numbers as four howling, long-haired black men from Shortani bore him down and almost tore him to pieces.
Everywhere was chaos and Sojan hardly knew who it was he fought, there were so many of them. Finally he singled out another red giant who whirled a shrieking twin-bladed axe around his head and laughed through his black beard all the time. He bled from a flesh wound on his left arm and his face streamed blood from a superficial sword cut, but he never seemed to tire. Sojan caught a blow of the axe on his shield which dented it so much that it almost broke his arm. Discarding the shield he skipped nimbly away from the arc of blood-stained steel, ducked beneath it and ripped upwards with a thrust that caught the giant in the throat and threw him groaning to the cobbles before Sojan lost sight of him as a fresh wave of sea-spoilers pushed towards him.
The war-shout of his people was upon Sojan’s lips and it rose above the screams and curses of the men, spurred Red and his men on to greater feats of magnificent swordsmanship until the sailors were driven back. Slowly, very slowly, they gave ground and just as victory seemed in the hands of Sojan and his allies, from the courtyard walls dropped scores of well-armoured axemen.
It was impossible to defend themselves against this sudden onslaught and the last thing Sojan heard as an axe haft fell on his helmet and blackness followed blinding light was:
“Take them alive. They will suffer more tonight!”
Chapter Fourteen
Sojan at Sea!
Sojan awoke with a piercing pain in his head which quickly disappeared. Looking about him, he found that he was lying on a comfortable couch in a well-furnished room which seemed to have an indefinable “something” wrong with it.
Then he realised what it was. Every article of furniture was clamped to the floor and the windows were small square openings in the walls, just below eye-level.
He was in a ship’s cabin! Obviously one of the ships in the harbour. That was why the men who had attacked him had worn seafaring garb. Which ship though? He didn’t know. Doubtless he would find out soon enough. Could it be the purple ship of death which swayed at anchor in Minifjar Harbour? It was likely. This business was mysterious enough for anything.
He walked over to the porthole and looked out. No, the purple ship could be seen from there. Then what ship was this?
He went back to the couch after trying the door which he found locked as he had expected.
He waited an hour—a long hour—until the bar on the door was lifted with a creak and the door swung open.
To his surprise, he found himself staring into the face of Parijh, the Uffjirian who said:
“Welcome aboard the Sea Crinja, my friend!”
But the man who stood behind Parijh caught the adventurer’s attention most of all. It was his War King’s son, Nomos Rique of Hatnor!
“Shiltain!” swore Sojan when he saw him. “What—?”
“Explanation later, Sojan, we were lucky to rescue you. Right now you’re not very welcome. My fault, I suppose, for giving no hint that I would be going—but there was no time.”
“But how did I get out of Orfil’s hands?”
“It’s a long story—too long to relate here. Meanwhile, we sail for the Sea of Demons!”
“What?”
“We’re sailing dangerous waters, Sojan, for we play a dangerous game in which the whole planet is at stake. Do you want to come on deck?”
“Thanks.”
The three men climbed the long ladders to the poop deck. Nornos Rique shouted orders as sails were set and men moved to their oars. All the men were well-built fighting men.
Sojan looked back to where the huge purple galley swayed at anchor like a dead ship becalmed in the terrible weed jungle of the Black Ocean. She gave no signs of following and soon the sails were billowing, oars creaked in unison and they were on the open water, bound for the mysterious Sea of Demons.
Like all ships, there was continual movement aboard. Men scurrying up and down the rigging, guns oiled and cleaned, the shouts of the mate giving orders.
The ship comprised three decks. Two raised fore and aft and a middle deck which was little more than a raised platform over the oarsmen’s pits on port and starboard. In the centre of this deck there was another slightly raised platform measuring about thirty feet upon which was the single mast. At the base of this mast a drummer sat beating out a steady rhythm which was followed by the oars who took their timing from the drum.
On this platform, also, was the heavy artillery and something which Sojan had never seen before—harpoon guns, twelve of them, five aside and another two fore and aft.
It was obvious that peaceful trading with the tribes along the Shortani coast was not entirely the object of this particular voyage.
Suddenly, Sojan remembered his comrades.
“What happened to my friends?” he asked.
“They’re all aboard the Purple Arrow, that cursed ship of death you saw in Minifjar Harbour,” answered Rique. “You see, Sojan, we only had time to free you before we were discovered. My men and I swam across and boarded her silently last night. We finally found you and, judging by your snores, you were in a drugged sleep. There were four others with you but they were so much dead weight that we could only take you and secretly leave knives in their shirts with which to aid themselves if they have the chance. I’m sorry, Sojan, but it is too late to go back for them now even if it were practical.”
“You are right, of course, Rique,” answered Sojan, “but I would that I could help them!”
Now the tall Sea Crinja was in open waters, beyond sight of land. Bound for the terrible Sea of Demons where few ships ever sailed—and returned. And, in the days they sailed towards their destination, Sojan pieced together the ominous tale of the Old Ones and how the Priests of Rhan sought to conquer Zylor with their evil aid.
It seemed that word of the plot was brought to Uffjir first. This country lies due North of Rhan on the Shortani coast and is generally better informed about the Island of Mystery as it is sometimes called than is the rest of Zylor.
The Uffjirian monarch, King Ashniophil, had feared to make public the news as it would very likely force the Rhanian Priesthood into swifter action. Instead, he had sent a messenger to enlist Nornos Rique’s aid as, if the worst ever happened, Hatnor was the most powerful country on the whole planet. Nornos Rique, naturally, had not thought it wise to notify his father at once as he knew the other’s aptitude to make quick, but sometimes hasty decisions and this is what Uffjir was trying to prevent.
Unfortunately, at the time of the messenger’s coming, the Princess Sherlerna had been with Rique and had overheard everything. She threatened to betray Nornos Rique to the Rhanians unless he paid her a fabulous amount of money.
Knowing that even when she had the money, she would be dangerous, Rique decided to go into hiding. He had to kidnap the girl and ride for Rhan in an effort to come to terms with the rulers or, if this failed, destroy or capture their leaders and their strange unhuman allies.
After several detours, he finally reached Minifjar but not before the princess had escaped and fled to Orfil who had promptly ridden for Minifjar himself where a ship (one of the purple fleet of the Rhanian Theocracy—or Priest Rulers) awaited h
im in case just such an emergency as this should occur. The mercenary’s questions had aroused his interest when he had overheard them at the inn and he had taken Sojan prisoner. Only to be foiled by the Uffjirian messenger who was acting as rear-guard for Nornos Rique.
The rest Sojan knew.
Now it was a race to get to Rhan first.
Chapter Fifteen
The Sea of Demons
It was a race to get to Rhan first. The Purple Arrow would take the comparatively safe way there by sailing down the coast of Poltoon until quieter waves were reached (namely the Poltoonian Ocean) and back to Rhan via these waters.
The Crinja, however, would attempt to sail through the Demon Sea, cutting off a considerable part of the distance. They knew little of what they had to fight against. The Arrow did not know of their plan and was relying on the greater speed to catch the Crinja and either destroy her or beat her to Rhan and have her destroyed there. If the Crinja could reach Rhan first, she would have several days’ start and the fate of the world would be decided in those days. Why the Arrow had sailed later, they knew not, but guessed that they were waiting for someone.
It was a day’s sail until they would reach the Demon Sea and in that time, Sojan got to know his companions better.
Parijh, the Uffjirian, proved to be a humorous man. Cheerful in the face of every danger they had had to meet. When necessary, he was an excellent swordsman but preferred to keep out of what he called “unnecessary brawling.” This often gained him a reputation of cowardliness but, as he said, it was an asset rather than otherwise, for what better opponent is there than the one who underestimates you?
Sojan had to agree with this statement and a strong feeling of comradeship and mutual respect grew between them as they sailed ever nearer to the Sea of Demons.
Sojan the Swordsman ; Under the Warrior Sky Page 6